A Boy Trooper With Sheridan

CHAPTER XI

Sent to the Hospital – The Convalescent’s Vision – The Name on the Head-board – Killed July 28, 1864 – Hom Taylor Died – Shot with his Harness On.

I HAD stood the fatigues of the campaign thus far without once answering sick call, but in the latter part of July I began to feel “de misery in de bowels,” as the contrabands described the disease that attacked the soldiers when in camp, and sent so many of them to the cemeteries. I fought against it as long as I could, but I was finally compelled to give in, and allow the first sergeant to put my name on the sick book. I was very weak, and Taylor assisted me over to the surgeon’s tent. The doctor marked me “sick in quarters” the first day, and I swallowed medicine every two hours all night. The next morning I was unable to get out of the dog tent Taylor had arranged for me.

Along in the middle of the day I fell asleep. Taylor had insisted that I should “take a nap between drinks,” as he called it.

“I ‘ll wake you up in time for your toddy,” he said.

I was awakened by the sounding of “boots and saddles” all through the camps.

“What’s up?” I asked Taylor.

“Got to move right away; guess the Johnnies have broke in on us somewhere. But I’ll ask the major to let me stay and take care of you.”

And my faithful nurse ran over to the commanding officer’s tent and made the request.

“We ran away and enlisted together, Major, and the doctor says the chances are against him unless he’s tended with great care. I don’t want to shirk duty, but I’d like to stay and see my towny through.”

“I’ll speak to the doctor about it,” replied the officer. “Tell the doctor to come here.”

When the surgeon appeared, he stated that the sick were to be sent to the hospital, and so it was decided that Taylor could not be spared to remain with me, as the movement was to be a reconnaissance in force on the north bank of the James, and every man would be needed. Taylor had to hustle to pack his traps and saddle up. After he had “buckled on his harness,” as he called it, he came back to me, and assisted the hospital steward and the driver in lifting me into an ambulance. I had just strength enough to raise my head and thank my comrade, who stood with a canteen of fresh water he had brought for me, beside a trooper who had been wounded in the arm while on picket, and who was to go with me in the ambulance.

“Thank you, Giles. Write and tell my folks about me the first chance you get.”

“I’m sorry to leave you, but I’ll come over to City Point and see you in a few days. Keep up your courage; you’ll pull through all right. But the company’s leading out. I must go. Good-by.”

“Good-by, Giles.”.

I did not have strength enough to sit up in the ambulance and see the boys as they rode by, but Taylor had told them I was in the vehicle, and I could hear them say, “Good-by, Allen,” as they passed along.

Then I was “all shook up” as the ambulance driver cracked his whip and shouted to his mules to “git out o’ hyar!” I do not remember how long we were on the road. I did not know then, for I was unconscious part of the time. Now and then we struck a long stretch of corduroy road. Oh! how it tortured me. Only old soldiers who “have been there” have any idea of the agony experienced in a ride over a corduroy road in an ambulance, particularly when the passenger is so weak that he cannot help himself at all.

“Drive around to the third tent there!”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many men have you?”

“One wounded, and one sick or dead boy, I don’t know which. He’s been fainting like, all the afternoon.” The above is what I heard upon regaining consciousness. We had arrived at the cavalry corps hospital on the bank of the Appomattox, just above City Point. I was taken from the ambulance and placed on a cot in one of the tents. Then I became unconscious again, but restoratives were given me, and I was able, when the attendants came around with supper, to swallow one spoonful of tea, after which I was given an anodyne which put me to sleep.

The cavalry corps hospital was separate from the general hospital of the Army of the Potomac at City Point, and was used exclusively for sick and wounded troopers. The best possible care was taken of the patients, and delicacies in the shape of corn starch, farina, beef tea, canned fruit, jellies and other articles not included in the regular rations were supplied. It was several days after my arrival before I was considered to have one chance in twenty of pulling through, but I had a strong constitution, and nature and the surgeon’s prescriptions won after a hard struggle.

What a luxury I found the cot with its mattress, clean sheets and a pillow – just think of it!

After I had passed the critical point, hovering between life and death for several days, and began to mend, I took as deep an interest in my surroundings as was possible under the circumstances. Part of the time I was in a sort of semi-unconscious state, the quinine and other drugs causing my brain to be fired up so that the incidents from the campaign of the Wilderness to the crossing of the James were all jumbled together with recollections of home and the events of my boyhood.

My cot was near the open fly of the tent, and one day, early in August, I was bolstered up so that I could get a view of the grounds sloping away toward the Appomattox. The tents were on a little knoll, and the ground fell away toward the river for a short distance, and then there was quite a stretch of open land sloping upward to a ridge, on the other side of which was the Appomattox.

The intervening space, beginning at the foot of the slope and extending nearly to the rising ground toward the river, had been converted into a cemetery. Here were buried the troopers of Sheridan’s command, whose bodies had been brought from the battlefields, and also those who had died in hospital. I soon tired of looking at the rows of head-boards, and asked to be laid back on my cot. Just as the attendant was removing the bolster which had supported me in a sitting posture, I fancied I saw the name “Taylor” on one of the slabs out there in the field.

As the nurse laid me back on my cot I was so fatigued that I could not collect my thoughts for some time. Then I began to think about the regiment. Why had not Taylor been to the hospital to see me? Was the cavalry on the north bank of the James? Had there been another raid? Was Giles sick? I went to sleep, and my dreams were of the kind that causes one to wake with his mind more confused than when he goes to sleep. The real and the unreal were so linked together that it was difficult to separate them.

The next day I was permitted to sit up in bed again. Then I began to search for that head-board that had made such an impression on me the day before.

After a time I located the one which had “Taylor” on it. But I was so weak that my eyes gave out before I could make out the rest of the inscription.

“Taylor?” said I to myself, “Taylor? Why, there are hundreds of Taylors in the army. This Taylor could be nothing to me.

“But where is my Taylor? Why hasn’t he been to see me? Of course if anything had happened to Giles the boys would have sent me word.”

The ward master came along, and as he seemed to be a good-natured fellow, I said to him:

“Will you do me a favor?”

“Certainly, my boy, if I can. What is it?”

“Tell me what the inscription is on that head-board out there – the one with ‘Taylor’ on it?”

“Taylor is all I can make out from here, as the board is a little obliqued from this point; but if it’ll be any accommodation to you, I’ll go down there and see what it is.”

“I would be so thankful if you would.”

The ward master went down the slope and to the grave in which I had come to be so deeply interested. I was confident, or thought I was, that nothing could have happened to Giles, but at the same time I could not rest until I found out the full name of the trooper who slumbered in that particular grave. In a few minutes the ward master returned.

“It’s Taylor,” he said.

“Yes; but what’s the other name?”

“Giles Taylor.”

“What regiment?”

“First Massachusetts Cavalry.”

“What company?”

“Company I.”

“What else?”

“Killed, July 28, 1864.”

“Where?”

“Near Malvern Hill.”

“Lay me down, please.”

“All right, my boy; did you know the trooper buried out there?”

“Yes; we ran away together to enlist. He nursed me in camp when I was stricken, and helped put me in the ambulance when I was sent to the hospital; he was my bunkey, and the best friend I had in the company.”

“It’s too bad; but war is a terrible thing.”

The day that I started for the hospital Sheridan crossed to the north bank of the James, to support a movement intended to cause Lee to withdraw the bulk of his army from the works in front of Petersburg. There was some lively fighting out near Malvern Hill, and during one of the attacks of the enemy Taylor was shot. The bullet entered his groin, severing the main arteries.

Daniel Booth, a bugler who was near Taylor when the latter was struck, assisted in getting the wounded man back out of range. Booth told me that Giles did not flinch – he was in the front rank when he was shot. He did not fall from his horse, but fired one or two shots after he was struck. Then he said to Booth:

“I’m hit – the blood’s running into my boot; guess I’m hurt bad.”

Booth hastened to Taylor’s assistance. The latter was growing weak from loss of blood. Just then Gen. Davies’s headquarters ambulance came along, and the general who was near at hand and had seen Booth and another soldier supporting Taylor in the saddle, directed them to put him in the ambulance.

“No; don’t let them put me in the ambulance, it’ll kill me if they lay me down. Let me stay in the saddle, boys.”

Booth remained with Taylor till they reached the landing where the wounded men were being loaded on boats to be taken to City Point. A surgeon examined Taylor’s wound.

“It’s fatal,” the doctor whispered to Booth. “But he can’t stay here; help him on board the boat.”

The boy bugler and others raised the dying trooper and bore him tenderly on board the steamer. They laid him down on a blanket among other wounded soldiers. Then the whistle blew, and the command was given, “All ashore that’s going!” Taylor was sinking fast, but he pressed Booth’s hand and said:

“Good-by, Booth; I’m dying. Send word to my folks at home – tell them I faced the music, and was shot with my harness on. Remember me to the boys.”

“Good-by, Giles.”

Booth jumped ashore as the gang plank was being pulled on board, and hastened back to the regiment. Poor Taylor was a corpse before the boat reached City Point. His body was taken to the cavalry corps hospital, and buried in the grave the head-board of which attracted my attention.

CHAPTER XII

Doleful Tales by Deserters from Lee’s Army – President Lincoln’s Visit to the Front – A Memorable Meeting – The Fort Steadman Assault – Lincoln on Horseback – At the Head of the Column – Wan ted to Get Off and Pull Down his Pants.

DESERTERS from the Confederate army at Petersburg came into the Federal lines with doleful tales of hunger and hardships. The “bull pen” near Meade’s headquarters was filled with Johnnies who had run away from Lee’s army. They had seen the handwriting on the wall, and were convinced that they had been fighting for a lost cause; the hopelessness of the struggle had struck home to their hearts – and stomachs. In March, 1865, before Grant began the movement on the left of Petersburg, a number of rebels came through the lines and surrendered.

“We can’t stand another campaign,” said a rebel deserter at the bull pen. “We can’t march and fight on quarter rations of meal and only a smell of meat.”

“Do you think the Confederacy is gone up?”

“Shuah’s yo born, but Bobby Lee’s game. He’ll fight till the last ounce of powder is used up.”

“What’s the use?”

“No use, except to show his fidelity to the cause.”

“He has shown that already.”

“So he has, and he’s in a mighty bad way.”

In the latter part of March the signs began to indicate that a general break-up was at hand. Dispatch bearers were seen on all sides, dashing away with messages from army headquarters to corps commanders in the lines in front of Petersburg. Horses were being shod, army wagons overhauled – the thousand and one things betokening a move were noticed in the camps.

At Meade’s headquarters it was understood that Grant intended to begin hammering again on or about the first of April, and the boys were satisfied that there would be no April fool business about it.

President Lincoln visited Grant’s headquarters, and was present when the Federal army moved “on to Richmond” for the last time. The President arrived about March 22, and he did not return to Washington till after the fall of Richmond, which city he entered the day after Jeff Davis fled. Lincoln was at City Point when Sheridan arrived after he had whipped Early out of the Valley. And here, too, came Sherman, the hero of the March to the Sea.

Tuesday, March 28, Gen. Meade rode down to the point and conferred with the general-in-chief. It was the day before that fixed for the movement. An informal council was held between Lincoln, Grant, Sheridan, Sherman and Meade. It was the first and last time that these five great men were ever together. In Richardson’s Personal History of Grant, the following pen-picture of the group is given:

“Lincoln, tall, round-shouldered, loose-jointed, large-featured, deep-eyed, with a smile upon his face, is dressed in black, and wears a fashionable silk hat. Grant is at Lincoln’s right, shorter, stouter, more compacts wears a military hat with a stiff broad brim, has his hands in his pantaloons pockets, and is puffing away at a cigar while listening to Sherman. Sherman, tall, with high, commanding forehead, is almost as loosely built as Lincoln; has sandy whiskers, closely-cropped, and sharp, twinkling eyes, slouched hat, his pantaloons tucked into his boots. He is talking hurriedly, gesticulating to Lincoln, now to Grant, his eyes wandering everywhere. Meade, also tall, with thin, sharp features, a gray beard and spectacles, is a little stooping in his gait. Sheridan, the shortest of all, quick and energetic in all his movements, with a face bronzed by sun and wind, is courteous, affable and a thorough soldier.”

Lincoln visited Meade also. I was one of the detachment sent to the railroad station to receive the President and escort him to headquarters. Orders had been issued for a grand review in honor of the chief magistrate, but before Lincoln had reached the station the troops were more seriously engaged. Gen. Lee had discovered that his situation was becoming more critical each hour that he remained in Richmond, and he determined to make a break for the Union works near the Appomattox, on the Petersburg line. If he could capture and hold Fort Steadman and the ridge in rear of it, he could seriously cripple Grant’s army and perhaps seize City Point.

General John B. Gordon was the commander selected by Lee to undertake the capture of the works. The assault was successful so far as getting into and taking possession of Fort Steadman was concerned, but the Federals rallied and recaptured the fort, the guns of which had been turned on our works to the right and left. The rebels had plunged into the Union lines in the darkness. The pickets were scarcely one hundred and fifty feet apart in front of Fort Steadman, and the main earthworks were separated by about as many yards. It is said that Gordon had the utmost confidence in the success of the expedition. He had been assured that the assault would be supported by troops from A. P. Hill and Longstreet’s corps. It was a bold attack, but the gallant boys in blue, though driven from the fort and some of the works in the immediate vicinity at the outset, returned to the front, and the rebel general found that he had no time to spare in getting back behind the Confederate breastworks. The Johnnies were routed with great loss, and nearly two thousand prisoners were captured by the Federals.

The attack on Fort Steadman woke up the whole army. Meade concluded to give the Johnnies all the fighting they wanted, and he ordered the Second and Sixth corps – occupying the line to the left of the Ninth corps in the front of which the rebel assault was made – to push out and see what was going on in their front.

The boys went forward with a cheer, and the Confederate pickets were driven back into the main fortifications, the rifle pits and the strongly intrenched picket line being taken by the assaulting forces. Nearly nine hundred Johnnies were captured.

Several counter charges were made by the rebels to drive our boys out of the works, but they satisfied themselves that the Yankees had come to stay. It was a cold day for the Confederates all along the line.

President Lincoln witnessed the battle in front of the Second and Sixth corps. He was on a ridge near the signal tower of the Second corps. Several ladies – I think Mrs. Grant, and I don’t know but Mrs. Lincoln was in the party – were there. They had been driven out from the railroad in an ambulance to see the review, but the President came to the front mounted.

As a horseman Lincoln was not a success. As I remember it, he rode Grant’s best horse. Several staff officers were at the station with a detachment of cavalry to look after the President. The latter’s clothes seemed to fit him when he got into the saddle, but before he dismounted at the signal tower he presented a sorry spectacle indeed. The cavalry escort reached the station a few minutes before the train from the Point came puffing along. The President stood on the platform of the only passenger coach. The escort presented sabers and Lincoln acknowledged the salute by raising his hat.

Then he came down from the cab and shook hands with the staff officers, who seemed to feel highly complimented to be recognized by the commander-in-chief. But when the President extended his hand to a high private of the rear rank who stood holding the horse His Excellency was to ride, and insisted on shaking hands with each soldier of the escort, the wearers of shoulder straps appeared to be dazed at such familiarity. The honored head of the greatest nation on earth recognizing in the wearer of the plain blue blouse of a humble private a fellow citizen! Military red tape could not comprehend it, but it made no difference with “Father Abraham”; he had a way of doing just as he pleased on such occasions. As the President advanced to mount, the orderly in charge of the horse, with a sly glance at Lincoln’s legs, said:

“You ride a longer stirrup than the general, sir. I’ll fix them in a jiffy.”

“No, no, my man; never mind. The stirrups are all right. I don’t like to stand on my toes in the saddle.”

Then the President threw his right leg over the horse’s back and smiled at the orderly’s surprise at such an unmilitary exhibition as Lincoln made of himself in getting into the saddle.

“Thank you,” said the great emancipator, as the orderly relinquished his hold of the bridle, and the horse with his distinguished rider began to dance around ready for the word “Forward.”

The staff officers sprang into their saddles, the escort broke into columns of fours, and the party started for the front. The President had jammed his hat well down over the back of his head to keep it from falling off. He leaned forward in the saddle so that his chin almost touched the horse’s mane. His coat was unbuttoned and soon worked itself up around his arms and flapped out behind. His vest seceded from his pantaloons and went up toward his neck, so that his white shirt showed between the vest and trousers like a sash. And it did not take long for the pantaloons to creep up the long legs of the distinguished visitor. Up to the knees they went – and higher. The President discovered that he was not cutting a very fine figure, but he had no time to fix things. His horse required all his attention, and more, too. The animal knew he was entitled to the head of the column, and he kept there.

Some of the staff officers, fearing perhaps that the horse would run away with the President, essayed to ride alongside and seize the bridle. The attempt proved a dismal failure. On went the fiery steed, bearing his honored rider out the road toward the breastworks. Lincoln held on. Now his feet were in the stirrups with his knees bobbing up nearly to his chin; anon his feet were out of the stirrups and his long legs dangled down almost to the ground. As we approached the line of battle of the Second corps, it was understood that the horse had “taken the bit in his mouth.” Would he stop when he reached the group of officers up on the knoll, or would he go on and carry the President into the battle over there between the forts? Whatever apprehensions may have been felt by the chief magistrate or any of those in the escort on this score, were quieted as we drew near to the signal tower. The horse slackened his speed and gave the President an opportunity to shake himself a little, so that his coat and pantaloons were to some extent brought back where they belonged.